


Preferences

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, it wasn't that Combeferre had a <em>type</em>, per se. And even if he did, Courfeyrac doesn't fit that type. Until, well, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preferences

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy fluff.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

Look, it wasn’t that Combeferre had a  _type_ , per se. Certainly his last two boyfriends had had a few things in common — smart, more inclined toward books and reading and intellectual arguments, which Combeferre very much enjoyed — and sure, they had shared a similar aesthetic — tall, lanky even, with hair almost the same shade of auburn — but that didn’t mean Combeferre had a  _type_.

Besides which, Enjolras would blow a gasket if Combeferre even hinted at something like that, claiming that Combeferre was prejudging someone’s worth as a potential partner on his or her appearance, race, class, etc. (never mind that Enjolras’s type ran towards dark-haired and cynical, which Combeferre wouldn’t point out because  _apparently_  best friends don’t tell when their friend is stupidly in love with another friend). Heaven forbid that people have  _preferences_ , after all.

And that’s all it was. Preferences.

Just like how Combeferre preferred to spend Friday nights in, curled up with a book and a cup of tea while a movie played in the background. Or if he went out, he tended to avoid the crowded bars and nightclubs favored by the rowdier segment of their friends, choosing poetry reading or a comfortable wine bar where they could sit around and talk.

Preferences. That’s all.

Combeferre had always thought he was pretty set in his ways. He hadn’t changed much in the years after graduating from college or getting his Ph.D. He still liked to do the same things, hang out at the same places, and spend time with the same friends. And he didn’t see what was wrong with that, either.

It was nice. It was predictable. And Combeferre, with his rants that veered from philosophic to revolutionary and back again all in a neat argument, had to admit that he liked the predictability, boring though some of his friends undoubtedly thought it was. He preferred the logic that accompanied routine.

But then, his preferences…well, they  _changed_.

Thirty year old men should not be bumping and grinding — or whatever the kids these days called it — in a club between writhing, sweaty bodies, but for Courfeyrac’s thirtieth birthday, he found himself doing just that. And when he thought about heading out early, going home to his cat and his TiVo and his cup of tea, he was intercepted by Courfeyrac, who dimpled at him — honestly, what thirty year old man had  _dimples_? — and said the magic word — “Please?”

That was all it took to get Combeferre to stay, even though a part of him rebelled, was confused, because he didn’t prefer  _this_. On the preference curve of Combeferre’s soul, this ranked somewhere around getting teeth pulled. But he stayed. He did shots. And he danced with Courfeyrac and their friends until the club closed.

It was a one-time thing, he told himself. Just because it was Courfeyrac’s birthday. His preferences hadn’t actually changed; people, in general, over the course of history, don’t really change, just repeat themselves in various patterns.

But then other things started happening: Courfeyrac calling him up at 1 in the morning when he was supposed to be grading tests and dragging him to an all-night diner to split fries and a milkshake because Combeferre “needs sustenance, and fries feed the soul as well as the stomach”; Courfeyrac telling him enthusiastically about this new bar that makes the best martinis that they just  _had_  to try; Courfeyrac giving him a complimentary ticket to the local high school’s spring musical because Courfeyrac had helped direct it and doesn’t it seem like a fun night?

Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been — Combeferre could think of few things worse than watching high schoolers struggle their way through a show twice as old as they were — but with Courfeyrac next to him, laughing at all the funny parts (and some of the not funny parts), clapping delightedly along to the songs, even though he had seen the show a million times before, how could Combeferre  _not_  have fun?

And now the days when Combeferre would do nothing but sit at home by himself were long gone. His TiVo was more neglected than not. And even on nights when he stayed in, as he still preferred to do, Courfeyrac would often join him, loudly commenting on what was on TV, or, if Combeferre was working, curling up next to him like a large cat, his head resting on Combeferre’s shoulder.

This wasn’t necessarily  _new_  behavior for either of them — they had roomed together for a year in college, after all, and Combeferre had grown accustomed to Courfeyrac hanging on to him like a baby gorilla — but as they got older, they hadn’t spent as much time alone together. Courfeyrac had gone to law school, graduated, got a job in a large firm. His nights were still spent much the same as in school, since despite the usual eighty-hour work week of a first year associate at a law firm, Courfeyrac still found or still made time to go out and party.

Combeferre had always envied Courfeyrac that easy ability to find time for fun, but now that they were hanging out more again, he realized that it wasn’t about finding time for fun: it was about  _making_  time for fun. And with Courfeyrac, it was easy to make time for fun, even if fun was just Courfeyrac snatching Combeferre’s textbook from him and holding it behind his back while Combeferre tried to wrestle it away from him.

Or if fun was the time when Courfeyrac stood up to leave and bent to kiss Combeferre goodbye, without even thinking.

Ok, so that hadn’t really been fun so much as it had spawned a five minute panic attack from Combeferre as Courfeyrac tried desperately to explain that he hadn’t  _meant_  that, except that he had, but like what he had with Marius, except very much  _not_  like what he had with Marius.

But what followed after was fun, when Combeferre dragged Courfeyrac down to him and kissed him full on the lips, if only to stop his increasingly senseless babbling for a minute.

And what followed after that was even less fun — two weeks of Combeferre and Courfeyrac awkwardly avoiding each other because they assumed the other wanted something different. After all, Courfeyrac wasn’t Combeferre’s type. And Combeferre wasn’t Courfeyrac’s type.

At least, that’s what he explained to Jehan, who stared at him as he stirred eight packets of sugar into his coffee. “Let me get this straight,” Jehan said slowly. “You don’t think you’re Courfeyrac’s  _type_? Tell me, what did Courfeyrac’s last three boyfriends look like?”

Combeferre had to wrack his brain, since it wasn’t like he spent a lot of time around Courfeyrac’s significant others, no matter how long (or short) the relationship was. “Um. Tall? I think two of them had glasses? Maybe?”

“And what about Courfeyrac’s last two girlfriends?”

“Probably about the same?”

Jehan picked up his coffee with both hands and looked at Combeferre over the brim as he took a sip. “And if someone were to describe you, what would be the first two descriptors that they would use?”

“Tall…with glasses…Oh.”

“Oh,” Jehan agreed, turning back to his poetry anthology and leaving Combeferre to his existential crisis.

Because, ok, sure, maybe he  _was_  Courfeyrac’s type. But Courfeyrac wasn’t his type at all. The man loved going out and having a good time, and Combeferre preferred staying in. But then again, lately Courfeyrac hadn’t been going out as much, staying in with Combeferre. And Combeferre hadn’t been staying in as much either, instead going out…with Courfeyrac.

Even so. Combeferre woke up early. Courfeyrac liked to stay up late. It would  _never_  work.

When he told this idly to Joly, Joly just looked at him pityingly. “If your worst problem as a couple is that you go to bed at different times, that’s really not a bad thing.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Combeferre protested, indignantly, followed by a squawked, “And we’re  _not_  a couple!”

But then again…well, they kind of were? Neither had dated anyone else once they started hanging out together, and short of the physical side of the relationship, everything else was exactly as if they had been dating for years. Including the way they playfully bickered. Which meant…

“Oh my God,” Combeferre announced, horrified, to a bemused Feuilly and Bahorel. “We’ve turned into Enjolras and Grantaire.”

Feuilly shrugged. “And if that’s true, what are you going to do about it?”

“Because trust me,” Bahorel added, “Enjolras-and-Grantaire status is not the place you want your friendship or relationship with Courfeyrac to be.”

Since truer words had never been spoken, Combeferre went straight to Courfeyrac’s with the intention of talking to him. Two hours later, no real words had been spoken, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac lay next to each other on Courfeyrac’s bed, chests heaving. “So,” Courfeyrac started, rolling over to grin at Combeferre. “I guess that answers the question of physical compatibility.”

It answered a lot of questions, actually, because in a weird way, they just worked. They fit. So maybe it wasn’t intellectual conversations and poetry slams. Maybe it didn’t meet the checklist of Combeferre’s preferences. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t love.

And besides, maybe Combeferre’s preferences now included dark-haired guys with dimples, a little shorter than him, who liked to go out and party as much as stay in, who could flit from conversation to conversation with ease. Hell, maybe his preferences always had. Or maybe, when it came to love, preferences didn’t really matter.

Because above all, there was a predictability in the chaos, a logic to the madness, and maybe that was the kind of routine that Combeferre had craved all along. The world could go to hell around him and it wouldn’t make any difference because Courfeyrac was his anchor, his northern star, his center. And really, always had been, even if Combeferre had never noticed.

So he rolled onto his side to kiss Courfeyrac and tell him, honestly, “I love you.”

Courfeyrac grinned back at him. “I love you, too. And not just because you’re totally my type, though let’s be real, you totally are.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre said, snuggling against him. “You’re my type, too.”

Combeferre had a type after all, it seemed. And it went by the name of Courfeyrac.


End file.
